


In the Empty Spaces

by Meilan_Firaga



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 14:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16996551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: In hindsight, it probably took Steve way too long to realize that he had a roommate.





	In the Empty Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinginInTheRaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinginInTheRaine/gifts).



When Tony agreed to help Steve find and shut down all of H.Y.D.R.A. he gave each Avenger a floor of their own in the tower, maximizing each space to suit the individual’s interests and personality. Steve’s floor had its own small boxing gym, lots of windows to grant him the best light to draw by, and, apparently, more comfort than anything on Natasha’s floor. He’d been able to write it off the first few times that she was there when he woke in the morning, red hair standing out in stark relief against the cream colored blanket she’d tucked around herself on his massive couch. At first the changes were subtle. Of course they were. Natasha was subtle in nearly everything she did.

The blanket, for instance, hadn’t been there the night before her appearance when Steve went to bed. She’d brought it with her, a soft, knitted thing that she left folded over the back of the couch when she disappeared while he was in the shower. He found her sipping tea from a mug he didn’t recognize one night while curled against the frame of one of his windows. The next morning the mug was left to dry beside the sink, its jet black color standing out against his white tile countertops.

More small items appeared as the months went on and Nat’s visits become more frequent. Foods with Russian labels turned up in the fridge and cabinets. A second toothbrush rested in a glass on the bathroom sink. Worn sweaters with no labels were folded on a previously bare shelf of the hall closet. A pair of worn ballet shoes were tucked into a corner where much of the floor was a smooth hardwood. Framed pictures of her with Barton and Maria Hill made their home on a bookshelf next to sketches he’d done of Bucky and the Howling Commandos. She never explained herself, and they never spoke of it, though Steve knew the signs of someone carving a space for themselves in the empty spaces of a place. Bucky had done the same thing in his apartment back in Brooklyn after his mother died. Never one to read too much into the actions of a woman, Steve figured Natasha just needed a friend.

By the time the seasons began to turn toward Christmas he was convinced it was something more. The day after Thanksgiving, Steve came home from a training session with Thor to find Natasha standing on a chair hanging a garland of faux greenery and delicate glass ornaments over the couch. She was wearing the type of outfit he’d seen her in frequently but never outside the confines of his floor: soft black leggings, yoga socks that let her polished toenails peek through, and an oversized sweatshirt. As he stared he realized that it wasn’t just any sweatshirt she was wrapped in—it was one of his. His heart did a funny bump that he wasn’t sure he’d felt since the 1940s, and his mouth went dry.

“Nice shirt,” he said before he could stop himself.

“All of mine were dirty,” she told him, never turning from the garland. It was a lie, of course. They both knew that she had plenty of shirts in the closet. One of Tony’s robots had taken to delivering their laundry together. Not that Steve was going to complain. He was suddenly quite sure that he’d readily sacrifice every shirt he owned if it meant he could find such a sight waiting for him every time he came home. He could tease her about it. Even twenty-four hours earlier he would have.

“Need a hand?” he asked instead.

There wasn’t much left to do. She confessed that she’d never owned much in the way of holiday decorations. The garland and twinkle lights she had were brand new, things she’d seen in a shop while walking through Manhattan and bought on a whim. They finished securing the garland with its spun glass minarets—they’d reminded her of Russia’s good parts—to the wall and fixed the lights to the tops of the windows. Though he knew she’d have no trouble getting down under her own power, Steve lifted her off the chair she was standing on by the waist when they finished with the last of the lights. Barefoot the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. He let his hands linger at her sides, his thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin emanating from beneath.

“Since when do you not tell me exactly what you mean, Nat?” he asked on a whisper, gazing down at her with hooded eyes. 

“Since I don’t know how to say what I mean,” she breathed, her words so quiet he wasn’t sure he would have heard her without the serum’s enhancements. She swayed toward him ever so slightly, one hand lighting on his chest and the other over one of the hands at her waist. 

“That’s not like you.” His thumb caught on the hem of the shirt, dragging it up just enough to brush the raised bump of a scar that disappeared into the waistband of her leggings. “I thought you had all the answers.”

He shrugged, giving him the barest hint of a smile. “I’m starting to like not knowing what I’m doing.” She stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, tracing a hypnotic pattern on his knuckles. “Even if I’m not sure what to do next.”

Steve leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, breathing deep as the scent of her—warm and clean beneath a hint of vanilla—surrounded him. “Maybe we can start with you not sleeping on the couch anymore.” He opened his eyes to find hers still closed, long lashes dusting her cheeks so very close to his own. She blinked them open slowly, tilting her head back just enough to look him directly in the eye. There was a teasing glint there that he’d become very familiar with over the missions they’d done together backed by a sincere resolve the likes of which he’d not seen in her before.

“We’ll just have to see.” She wrinkled her nose and danced suddenly out of his reach before he could stop her. “Go get changed.” She was already in the kitchen, filling a kettle that he hadn’t bought and setting it on the stove. “Maybe have a shower. What do you and Thor do that makes you smell so awful anyway?”

Laughing, Steve made his way back to his bedroom. He tugged his shirt off as he stepped over the threshold, tossing it in the direction of the hamper, only to stop dead in his tracks at the foot of the bed. His comforter was nowhere to be found, replaced by a worn patchwork quilt. An extra pair of pillows wrapped in embroidered shams had been added to the plain ones already leaning against his headboard. Nothing on the nightstand he used had been touched, but a novel with a bookmark had appeared on its mate’s surface.

Carving out her space, indeed.


End file.
